"I'm feeling all angry about these modern day footballers. I know why they have all gone soft - It's because of poncy names.

That's what it is. Remember in the old days, when footy players kicked a ball made out of ten pound of clay stitched inside a steel re-inforced leather shell with laces made out of piano wire: players with names like Bert, Harry, Bill, Eddie, Bob, Jack and Tommy. Rock hard names for rock hard men, them was. And what do we have now? Jason, Wayne, Dean, Ryan, Jamie, Robbie. Tarts' names, they are. Great big tarts!

No wonder, The ball's like a soddin' balloon with shin pads is like slices of Weight-Watchers bread. In the old days you never saw a Len Shackleton or a Billy Wright with a poncy little Sondico piece of paper down his little thin socks. Shin pads in them days was made out of library books, and socks was like sackcloth. Same with the jerseys. Nancy boy shirts with holes in now so they can sodding breathe. Yes, so that little Jody's hairless chest can breath and he doesn't get a chill. Bugger off! Stanley Matthews used to dribble round Europe's finest wearing a great big bloody tent and shorts cobbled together from the jacket of his de-mob suit. Aye, he soddin' well did. No wonder modern day players fall over all the time whenever an opponent comes anywhere near them!

And in the old days, they never used to show their arses at one another either. Can you imagine what might have happened if Don Revie had flashed his ring at Nat Lofthouse during a City v Bolton Wanderers game? He'd have got one of them size thirteen hobnail boots up his backside!

Therapy for sodding stress? My hairy arse! Stan [Isn't Stan a good old fashioned name? - Ed] Collymore slaps his missus about and he takes three seasons off for stress councelling. What is all that bollocks about? Soft bugger! In the old days, I remember Archie McShitt of Port Vale got run over with a horse and cart one Friday night and he still turned out against Bradford the following day. And he scored two bleedin' goals. That's cos his name wasn't "Trevor". Good old Archie. Broke his hip, both his legs, murdered his wife and buried her under the patio and still made the England team for the home internationals. Did he have any sodding "stress" counselling? Did he bollocks!

And drugs? There was none of that. In the old days. Oh, no. In them days it was a quick shot of morphine before the kick-off, and you could count yourself lucky to get that! By half time it had all but wore off so they pumped you full of laudanum. None of this cocaine sniffing and shooting up class A narcotics!

Goal celebrations? Don't talk to me about sodding goal celebrations! Crawling on the floor and thrusting their hips at the crowd. Huh! I'd like to have seen Cliff Bastin do that after a run down the bleedin' left flank and crossing for Alex sodding James to fire home a winner. Handshakes.........and that was all you got. That and a wank in the shower afterwards. But it was a proper wank...... all man stuff. None of these puffy wanks between blokes that you get nowadays! In them days, there was nowt wrong with it cos it didn't mean nowt. They used to say there was a "gay atnosphere" in the dressing room after the match. But it didn't mean nowt mucky. Just a bit of harmless spanking the plank among healthy young sportsmen. Aye. I know cos me dad told me!

Sixty bloody grand a week! Ha! I wouldn't pay 'em tuppence. Two bob, Tommy Lawton used to get........a month! And Tom Finney still worked as a plummer four days a week when he was playing for England. It's true, you know. It bloody well is! Players had to work in them days just to make up their money. Not like today. Stan Pearson had to clean sewers and doubled up as Old Trafford shit house cleaner.

He had to go off during one game cos some bugger had built a log cabin and blocked the U-bend. And that Eddie Hapgood was a male model... though he never liked to talk about it. So I say we start calling kids real mens' names again. If you're having a kid, don't even consider puffy shite names like what people call their kids these days. Otherwise what we gonna get in twenty bleedin' years time? The England team full of players called Keanu, Ronan, Ashley and Chesney. Bollocks to that! Call your kids Alf, Herbert, Len, Frank, Fred and Wilf. And let's get the ponces out of the game, once and for all.

I thank you!"